THAT NIGHT IN THE CAVE -- A SHORT STORY
That Night in the Cave “Trent! Grab the staff,” Luther boomed, his large frame tense and golden. The cave walls shimmered as the fire crackled and popped, casting the shadows of a dozen men. The final ritual had begun. Trent did as he was told because Trent always did what he was told, especially when it came to Luther. People in town knew Luther, knew he didn’t mess around. Had this gone too far? Absolutely. Trent knew that. Nobody should have to die over small town politics. Besides, although Trent wasn't a smart man, h e suspected that the Hashtons were no more a threat to their community than fly to the moon. But, what was he to do? The fire was roaring and Christina, the last remaining Hashton, was tied up a few feet from the flames on a custom wooden spit Luther himself had crafted. As he handed Luther the staff, which was long and heavy and knotted, Trent bowed. Luther had never required him to bow, but he was pleased when it happened, usually in times of serious...
